


Together or Apart

by aliveanddrunkonsunlight



Series: armies couldn't keep me out [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 19:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18666967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliveanddrunkonsunlight/pseuds/aliveanddrunkonsunlight
Summary: Another of the million post "The Long Night" Jaime & Brienne fics. After the battle, Jaime helps Brienne clean up.He crosses back to her and gently wipes from her forehead down her cheek, before repeating the action on the other side of her face. Each one a long, smooth stroke. The cloth comes away darkened and Jaime rotates it, finding a clean patch before continuing, wiping gently at the corners of her eyes, carefully over her nose, even gentler still at her upper lip.





	Together or Apart

Her breath comes in loud, fast gulps of air, but it doesn’t feel like enough. She can’t get the stench out of her nose and braces herself against the wall, keeling over at the waist to try and catch her breath, but it only draws her closer to it. Death.

Light headed, she doesn’t feel strong enough to stand. An arm at her back, another guiding her at the elbow. Faces. Podrick and Jaime, darkened with dirt, blood, and ash. Jaime’s good arm hovers near her waist, anticipating, knowing she will need his support again. She takes tentative steps and stumbles, bones cracking under her feet, a shiver drawing up her spine. But Jaime is there to catch her, to set her right again, even though looking into his eyes, she can see that he too is far away, his body slumped with exhaustion. 

Once Pod and Jaime deposit her in her chambers, she can’t quite comprehend anything. The soft straw of the mattress on which she sits, how she came to be here. Her room is untouched, as if nothing at all happened tonight.

She doesn’t know how long she sits there, staring into space, her gaze alighting on each item in the room and then starting over again. There’s a soft knock on the door and she must murmur some sort of reply, because Jaime enters, his face soft, hair damp but brushed back neatly. She envies his cleanliness but still cannot find the strength to move. Jaime’s brow furrows when he sees her in the same place he left her. “Brienne?” his voice is full of concern, edging into panic. “Are you injured?” A hand placed gently on her knee in an effort to get her to look at him. 

Brienne manages to shake her head. Jaime kneels down, his good hand reaching for the leather straps to loosen her greaves. His fingers are nimble, quick, warm against her. The first warmth she’s felt in many, many hours. From there, he pulls off her sabatons and starts to unstrap the cuisses.

The door is ajar and upon hearing soft footfalls in the hallway, Brienne’s head snaps towards it. Her heart quickens, a flash of those milky blue eyes boring right through her. Pod tentatively looks in on them and she takes a sharp breath of relief. “Do you need help?” His eyes are on Jaime, who makes his way to his feet and meets him at the door. Their muffled, low voices echo in the hallway. “There’s a salve in my chambers, along with a small, gold flask. Bring them both. Then try and get some rest.” 

“Yes, ser.” 

“You can call me Jaime.” 

“Yes, ser...Jaime.” Pod stumbles over the words. Jaime closes the door behind him and walks back to her, his eyes searching her face. “Are you able to stand?” He’s not wearing his hand, not even the wooden one he often wears in the evenings. His shirt sleeve falls past his forearm, effectively hiding his stump. Other than when he first lost his hand, she’s never seen him without its replacement. The idea of him being too weary to put it on makes her search his face, not sure what she’s looking for exactly, but wonders if she will find the same emptiness in his gaze which she remembers from years ago. The way he stared through her then, not heeding her pleas for him to eat. He’d wanted to die. But she wouldn’t let him. 

Neither of them had died tonight, but knows how close they came, the acknowledgement settling deep in her chest moments after the wights collapsed, moments after she was able to turn her head and see Jaime and Pod still standing beside her. Alive and breathing.

“Brienne?” Jaime tries again, desperation in his voice, but not in his eyes. His eyes are soft, warm, the same unwavering green. She’s looking at him without really seeing him and she so very much needs to see him. Brienne tries to focus, her vision flickering like candlelight, Jaime’s face swimming in front of her. “Are you going to be sick?” His voice doesn’t hold any disgust, only concern. “It’s all right if you are. I was. Both before and after my first battle. Sick behind my tent and sick afterwards in the field.” 

She tries to reach for the stays at her breastplate, her hand slipping, eyes on the black caked under her nails, the stench filling her nostrils again. Death and burning and…

Tries for her stays again, but she’s so tired. Her arms ache. Jaime’s hand covers her own. “Let me.” He removes her pauldrons before untying the straps of her breastplate, but he struggles trying to balance the weight of the breastplate with only one good hand. Pod is returning with the items and hurries in to help. When the two of them have carefully lifted away her back plate, she’s able to take deeper breaths, falling into the rhythm of the rise and fall of her chest. Pod glances at Jaime worriedly, who murmurs, “Thank you, but we’ll be all right.” 

The young boy--not so young now--nods and leaves again. Jaime continues taking off her armor, but pauses when the doublet she wears underneath is as spewed and caked with mud and blood as she is. “Come on,” he coaches her gently to a stand, unbuckling her mail skirt and placing it with her other armor. Her sword stands next to it, the lion’s head flecked with dirt and debris. Brienne hasn’t unclenched her fists.

Among the items Podrick brought with him are several strips of clean cloth. Jaime picks one up and reaches for the pitcher of water before realizing he can’t pour the water onto the cloth with only one good arm, so he dunks it inside instead, wringing it out over the fire, water hissing as it falls to the flames and turns to steam. 

He crosses back to her and gently wipes from her forehead down her cheek, before repeating the action on the other side of her face. Each one a long, smooth stroke. The cloth comes away darkened and Jaime rotates it, finding a clean patch before continuing, wiping gently at the corners of her eyes, carefully over her nose, even gentler still at her upper lip. His eyes pausing before clearing his throat and moving away to fetch another cloth. 

Jaime pours some of the water from the pitcher into her wash basin and directs her to lift her chin, then starts cleaning off her neck. With every stroke, every slight pressure from his hand, she returns to herself a tiny bit more, now able to feel the heat from his body as he draws close, the chill when he moves away. He returns with flask in hand, opening his fingers and nodding at her to take a sip. The alcohol burns her throat, but he watches her take another sip. “Good,” his voice is nearly a whisper. The alcohol creates a warm pit in her stomach, heat emanating out, a tingle running through her veins, some semblance of feeling returning to her fingers and toes. 

He tries to wipe away the mess caked in her hair, but the reach is awkward and Brienne knows his limbs are as heavy as hers. There’s a tub in her room, behind a screen painted with the Stark sigil, but not enough water to fill it. Her eyes travel there and Jaime asks if she wants to wash herself. She nods and he turns towards the door. 

“Don’t go.” Her hands are shaking at the thought of being alone. Jaime steps back towards her, taking her right hand in his left. 

“I was going to retrieve the pitcher from my chambers.” Normally she would blush at her mistake but tonight she merely nods, distracted by the way his thumb traces across the top of her knuckles as he pulls away. 

Stepping behind the screen, knees shaky, she wraps her arms around herself, squeezing them tight against her ribs in an effort to stop the stream of thoughts. Jaime returns quickly, setting the pitcher on the floor near the edge of the screen. 

Her hands are still unsteady and she fumbles with the lace on her breeches for several moments. “Do you need help?” he asks and even with the screen blocking her view, she knows exactly how he’s sitting at the end of her bed, the light from the fire flickering over his face, catching the specks of gold in his green eyes. 

Without waiting for an answer, Jaime comes around to her side of the screen. Her instinct is to turn her back on him, but she’s too bone tired to object. His hand is gentle on her shoulder before he takes the hem of her doublet between his fingers and thumb, those green eyes unafraid to look into hers. “May I?” 

She nods dumbly, thoughts swimming, but her mouth unable to form words. He lifts the doublet over her head, Brienne wincing as dried blood sticks to the cloth, which reopens a slash along her upper arm. She can’t bring herself to look at him, her gaze resting on the floor, but she can sense him, his eyes, his hand reaching for her, fingers brushing gently across her wounds, the rising bruises which will purple and yellow. 

She tries to squeeze her eyes shut, but quickly remembers that’s a bad idea. She slowly takes a step back, her arms naturally covering herself, crossing over her chest. But Jaime doesn’t sneer or jape. He doesn’t back away. He looks at her steadily, a glimpse of something in his eyes she’s never seen before. She’s never allowed herself to see it. She knew it couldn’t possibly be true. 

“You’re trembling,” he says gently and the concern in his tone nearly undoes her. A knight cannot cry.

She cannot do this. Not with him standing there looking at her like that. It’s not him seeing her naked body which scares her--he’s seen her before, in the bath house many years ago--it’s the  _ way _ he’s looking at her. “I...I need to-”

He backs away without her even needing to name it. When he steps around the screen, she drops her arms, one hand reaching to grip the edge of the tub. She wants to scream, make a noise, but he’s settling himself onto her bed and her body has begun to ache in places she didn’t even know existed. 

Her heart pounding in her chest, she strips off her britches, climbs into the tub, and washes her limbs, her stomach, every part of her caked with grit and mud. She works on her back, her arm muscles fighting against her every time she picks up a cloth. She keeps stopping to rest, but now the rest of her body is clean, the small patch of her back feels even worse. Letting out a sigh, she leans against the edge of the tub, defeated. The fire crackles and Brienne calls out weakly, “Jaime?” 

Maybe he’s fallen asleep. But a moment later, he appears at the edge of the screen, she can only see his shoulder and understands he’s averting his gaze on her behalf. “What is it? Are you hurt?” 

“No, I...there’s a small part of my back which I cannot reach. Will you?”

“Am I allowed to look? Or do I need to keep my eyes closed?” he teases.

A laugh bubbles up in her throat, an odd reminder of the humanity even in the midst of despair. “Yes, you may look.” 

“Very well.” She passes him the cloth and he makes those long, solid strokes again. Her skin prickles, giving her away this time. “You’ll catch cold.” 

“I’m all right,” she insists, even though she can’t stop shaking. 

“Where are your nightshirts?” 

“The wardrobe.” A moment later he’s back at her side, handing her clean clothes. Her nightshirt feels especially soft and warm still, from his hand. Jaime moves away to let her dress, but as she walks slowly around the screen, her feet tender, he comes to her side. He guides her to the bed and reaches for the jar Pod brought, handing it to her to open, an apologetic look on his face. The scent of herbs wafts out, pleasant, but indistinct. “What is it?” 

“A salve one of the maesters made. For my hand. The scarring,” he says quickly. “But it works on any wound. Bruises. Cuts.”

“Is that lavender?” The herbs are starting to become separate, identifiable. 

“Yes.” Jaime nods. “Roll up your sleeve. That cut on your arm.” She obeys, slipping the cloth up her arm. Brienne watches as he barely dips his finger into the pot, but as soon as he touches her arm, the salve tingles and then cools. “Anywhere else?” 

For the first time that night, she wishes she’d sustained more injuries. “A gash on my leg.” Pulls up the long hem of her nightshirt to show him. Again, Jaime touches her ever so gently, the salve doing quick work. 

“Why?” she asks, unaware her brain even thought the question, much less her mouth articulated it, until it is well out of her mouth. 

His gaze again. The steady sameness as before. She knows him. Can see the emotions flit across his face. Now he’s the one who is vulnerable. 

“Why are you doing this?” she asks again.     


“Because.” His jaw squares, his mouth opens and closes as he carefully puts together the words. “I was scared...Scared I was going to lose you.” 

She’s trembling again. Her whole body shaking, not because of the cold or the thought of the battlefield, but because he’s right. It’s the one thing which scares her the most. Not death. But losing him. Losing him before she ever really had him. 

Brienne’s mouth crashes against his. He’s been gentle with her all night, but this is not gentle and it’s not patient. It’s hungry and heated and messy. Jaime drops the salve so he can grip her shoulder and it rolls into the bedclothes. Brienne letting out a laugh and not caring, simply pulling him closer, needing his lips warm on hers. 

“Are you scared now?” she murmurs, slowing down. Placing lazy kisses along against his jaw, his beard scratchy against her cheek.

He reaches for her, his hand tracing her cheek, drawing her eyes to his. “No,” he says simply. “Are you?”

Grateful her face is already flushed from the fire and from him, so he can’t see the effect his words have on her, she catches his wrist and pulls his palm away from her face, planting a gentle kiss there. “No.” 

Her other hand reaches down to the ties on his breeches, but Jaime’s fast, threading her fingers through his own. “Later,” he promises. “Tonight, I want you beside me.” 

“Jaime, I-” But he shakes his head, cutting her off with a look. 

“None of that now. We can talk when you’ve rested.” Brienne knows it will take her a long, long while to fully reckon with the way he’s looking at her. She still half expects his smile to twist up into a mocking grin, his eyes to flash in jest. 

“And you?” 

“I will be here in the morning, same as you.” It’s already morning, she wants to point out, but exhaustion overtakes her, eyelids heavy. 

“Thank the gods for that,” Brienne tries to murmur, but isn’t sure it fully passes from her lips before the warmth of his body and the heaviness of her limbs carry her off to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> My middle ages/medieval knowledge is limited, so please forgive me if I got any of the terminology wrong.


End file.
